The 68th Hunger Games
by Jee oto ta Huttuk koga
Summary: Dazzle, career tribute from District 1, has been looking forward to the Hunger Games for most of her life. When it's finally her turn, she finds that the victory she craves is not all that it seems.
1. Chapter 1

There is no way to get more than a few hours of "beauty sleep" the night before the Reaping.

The others are whispering to each other from under their blankets. Every now and then a stifled laugh or a muffled yelp breaks the threshold, which is immediately followed by a chorus of soft hisses. No one wants the Proctors to come in, though I suspect they are turning deaf ears tonight.

My pillow is soft enough, but I roll over onto my stomach and give it a few thumps anyway. I smile to myself when I hear the conversations freeze as fifty pairs of ears strain to listen for approaching footsteps. When no moving shadows block the light coming from the corridor, the subdued buzzing begins again. No one is whispering to me tonight. They haven't in months, since right after the Academy announced that I had been selected to volunteer as the female tribute for District 1. I don't mind that they won't talk to me, for the most part. I'd been the same way with tributes before Hunger Games in past years. I never knew what to say to the lucky ones, those dedicated and talented enough to have been chosen. Besides, I've been too busy.

The call to rise had not yet sounded, and I should not be out of bed. But I have been given some small freedoms since being officially selected, or at least my minor infractions have been ignored. I quietly slipped out of bed, being careful not to jangle the bells that line my bed frame. That was one of the first lessons, to get up in the morning without making a sound, and I am very good at it. Breakfast is not for a few hours. I decide to go down to the practice ring and at least stretch out some of my nervousness. I'm not sure why I'm nervous. I know exactly what is going to happen. I wind my hair into a bun and slip on my sleeveless shirt and leggings. I choose my soft shoes rather than my worn heavy boots, and ease out of the dormitory. If anyone else is awake and sees me go, he does not comment.

The practice ring is not quite empty. Filigree is there, working at the pell with a heavy practice sword. He strikes the padded post hard enough to make it shudder. Sweat beads on his forehead as he strikes and moves, strikes and moves. He switches the sword to his left hand. The pell suddenly rushes at him, thrusting down its invisible track. Filigree dodges to one side, dropping to a crouch and giving the post a masterful blow as it passes. I applaud, slapping my hand on my knee. "Not so bad for a rickety old man," I taunt him.

He glances up at me and snorts. Of course he knew I was there, he misses nothing. It has become a ritual between my trainer and me. I make some crack about his age, or his balding head, or his joints that have become stiffer in the mornings. He always feigns insult with a noise, or throws something at me, or gives me a stiff whack with whatever he has in his hand, sometimes all three, if I've made a particularly good remark. Today, though, the noise lacks its usual gruff tone, and it makes me look at him more closely. He is studying me with curiously bright eyes. I suddenly wonder why he is on the practice floor so early. He finally speaks after a few moments. "You shouldn't be here, Dazzle. You can't be all sweaty for the Reaping."

"I won't be. I was just going to stretch."

"I'm done here. I'll cool down with you."

Our stretches are light, more for the sake of having something to do instead of lying awake. By the time the call to rise warbles through the Academy, I am feeling more relaxed. The Reaping isn't until this afternoon, so there will be plenty of time for me to take a bath and get fixed up after breakfast. I didn't think I'd be hungry, but I am. Filigree pulls on his loose Trainer's jacket over his workout clothes, fastens the bright ornamental clasps, then straightens and faces me. Filigree has been my trainer since I was six years old. We will never see each other again. He looks at me again with that strange brightness in his faded blue eyes, then pretends to cough and presses something into my palm. I can't help but look down at it. It's small, and wrapped in coarse blue cloth, perhaps a scrap from a shirt. "Open it at breakfast," he says curtly, and then he turns and leaves the ring through the Trainer's entrance.

I feel the package in my hand all the way to the cafeteria. When I enter, everyone in the room stands, as they have done at every meal since I was selected to volunteer. I have become used to it by now, but today the group seems tense, and it draws my attention. Even the Tiros, the first-year trainees, are standing ramrod straight. Not one fidgets or looks anywhere except at me. One little boy is actually staring open-mouthed. I nod to them, and as they take their seats, I move to the empty serving line to get my tray.

Today's breakfast is a large square of oily pressed fish, a mound of bittergreen mixed with bland barley, two pickled eggs, and a cup of thin goat's milk. Normally, I am obligated by the Academy rules to eat all of it before I do anything else, but I focus on Filigree's package first. Some of the trainees quietly give each other small Hunger Games presents, mostly useful items like bootlaces or hair ties. The majority of them outgrow the urge to give gifts by the time they graduate to the Second or Third Degree. Filigree has never given anything to me before, and as far as I know, he hasn't given as much as a kind word to anyone else. I pick open the knot, and peel away the cloth. Inside is a precious Gemcake. We are not allowed to have sweets, and I don't remember the last time I've even seen any. This one is richly blue and shiny smooth like a sapphire cabochon, with icing lines forming the star. It is too beautiful to eat, but that's the entire point of a Gemcake. If you succumb to the temptation to keep it without eating it, you miss the total experience. The giver honors you by implying that you are worthy and able to fully enjoy it. I don't even know how Filigree got this wonderful thing, or how much it must have cost him. There is a bit of paper inside the cloth, with a handwritten note.

"You are the best I have ever trained."

I feel a lump in my throat, and my chest is tight. I tuck the note inside my shirt, before anyone has a chance to see it. Filigree would be in serious trouble if it was known that he had shown any favoritism to a trainee, and I resolve to destroy it as soon as I leave the cafeteria. I look at the cake again to memorize every gorgeous line and carefully polished curve, and then I close my eyes and slip it into my mouth. It is the best thing I have ever eaten. I feel like I am going to cry. But I don't.


	2. Reaping Day

It doesn't matter who was actually chosen, how old they were, or how many times they had put their names into the bowl in exchange for extra tesserae. No one cares whether they were from families of gemcutters, metalsmiths, plasticians, or leatherworkers, like mine. All that matters is that when Bolgee Boh drew the slip of paper from the glass bowl of girl's names, I stepped forward and shouted, "I volunteer as tribute!" before he even had a chance to pronounce the name.

He's looking across the crowd at me now, beckoning with one pastel-blue gloved hand, and smiling, though nothing on his face moves except his mouth. "Wonderful! Outstanding! We have a Volunteer for District 1!" He says this with the unbounded surprise and enthusiasm of someone who hasn't said it every Reaping Day for the last six years. I am at the front of the group of girls of my Degree from the Academy. My hair has been combed and styled into soft waves, unlike the practical bun I am used to wearing. I'm also wearing pink lip gloss and a dark brown paste that makes my eyelashes look thicker. I feel as if I am wearing a layer of plastic wrap over my face, but when I come closer to Boh, I realize that his face is liberally coated with velvety blue and white makeup. I'm acknowledging the applause with nods, like I'm supposed to, but I can't help but wonder how all that makeup stays on him. They had to redo my lip gloss on several times right before the Reaping because I kept licking it off. He draws me close to the audio pickup. "What's your name, dear?"

"Dazzle," I say, looking out at the audience. There are at least five thousand people packed in the Amphitheater, with the rest of the District who had come too late to be seated inside organized into makeshift viewing areas in the adjacent avenues. The Amphitheater has been decorated for Reaping Day. There are bright flags and rows of delicate folded paper lanterns that have been strung over every available straight surface. Families are wearing their special colored fringes fastened to their clothing, and I see them as mixed masses of reds, purples, blues, yellows and greens. I know that I cannot expect to pick out individual faces from this distance, but I can't help but scan the yellows, hoping to see someone I know. I do not recognize anyone. Bolgee Boh puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a congratulatory squeeze. "Let's give her a round of applause, shall we? Dazzle, everyone!"

Enough hands are slapping across knees and enough feet are pounding to make the stage tremble. I notice that a few clusters of people, particularly among the reds, are not moving, or moving so slowly that they might as well be sitting still. I feel some indignation at this. I worked hard for this day, to be chosen as the District volunteer for the Games! I wore bruises for years! When I wasn't strong enough with blunt weapons Filigree doubled me on them for weeks! Sick, sad, tired, I trained! Don't they know? I wonder briefly what might have happened to make the reds not like me. Did I do something? Had the yellows?

I don't have time to worry about it. Bolgee Boh is fishing into the boy's bowl, dramatically stirring around and pulling out a slip with a flourish. "And now, for our tribute from the boys! It's…"

He only gets out the first syllable of the name when "I volunteer as tribute!" rings from the group of the most senior Academy boys. My male counterpart marches up to the platform, looking neither right nor left. I know him, of course. He is tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes that are so light that they are almost colorless. He has very blonde hair that he normally wears cut close to his scalp, but the Academy told him a few weeks ago to grow it out so it would look better for Reaping Day. Many of the girls think he is handsome and try to get his attention, but he has knocked me unconscious too many times during training for me to share that opinion. Bolgee Boh says, "What a glorious day for District 1! Two volunteers! What is your name, young man?"

"Chrome," he says flatly. He raises his chin to the crowd, basking in the thunderous applause. I watch the Amphitheater carefully this time, and I see that the same knots of reds are silent. I know now that they aren't objecting to me, and since Chrome is a blue, I know they aren't angry with the yellows. But now I don't know what their silence can mean. A glance at Chrome tells me that he has seen it too, but I can't read what he thinks about it from his expression.


	3. Visitation Hour

Immediately after the Treaty of Treason has been read and the last triumphant notes of the anthem of Panem fade, a squad of Peacekeepers lead Chrome and me out of the Amphitheater to the District Justice Building. I am so eager to go that I am almost leading them. I have always wanted to see the inside of the Justice Building. It stands gleaming and white over the drab gray of the avenues that surround it. I could see the sculpted metal roof with its weathered patina from the Academy, on days when I had permission to be outside. I wondered what went on inside such a beautiful place.

We are ushered into separate rooms. I sink into the softest, most padded chair I have ever seen in my entire seventeen years. It is so large that I can curl up on the seat with my knees bent and my feet beside me. The nap of the suede is finer than any I can recall seeing, even from my family's leather shop. There is a knock at the door. I quickly straighten myself out and sit properly, with dignity, as I have been taught to do. My family comes inside, to spend the hour I have been granted to say farewell. I have not seen them since last Reaping Day, and I am shocked. Father and Mother look much sicker than they did last year, although their smiles practically glow with pride. Shine and Satin, my younger sisters, are both pasty and owlish, with dark circles around their eyes. Only Lapis, my baby brother, still looks completely well. I rise to greet them, and without thinking, I check my feet to see if I am standing on something, maybe a swell of uneven floor? Then I notice that it's just because I am now considerably taller than Father. Mother reaches to hug me, and while I am glad of it, it feels strange. "The medicine isn't working?" I ask lamely.

Father shrugs. He never complains, even when he has bad headaches. Mother strokes my hair. "We started on a new one a week or so ago. I'm feeling better, and I think the girls are too."

Lapis has been staring at me. I'm not sure he remembers me, but the rest of the family is obviously happy to see me. "I work in Father's shop soon," he blurts out, then puts his finger in his mouth.

"You'll make the nicest leather ever," I say, smiling at him. He looks like he wants to smile back, but hides behind Mother instead.

My sisters give me a bracelet. "It's the first thing we ever made all by ourselves," Shine tells me. It is about an inch wide with neat stitching along the edges and elaborate tooling in a floral pattern. Parts of the design have been etched and polished to reveal the natural yellowish color beneath the brown stain. "It's beautiful," I say, latching the gilt buckle around my wrist. "You are both true craftsmen."

Both of them beam under my sincere praise. "True craftsman" is a high compliment. The people of District 1 take immense pride in the things they make, and for just a moment I feel a pang of sorrow that I never learned how to work leather into useful and beautiful things like my sisters have. If I win the Games this year, maybe I'll ask them to teach me when I return to the District.

Mother wipes her nose, and I see a smear of pink on her handkerchief. She quickly stuffs it into her pocket. "We are going to go now," she says. "We don't want to worry you too much before you have to leave."

"I'll see you when I come back," I say. My stomach lurches as I suddenly think that even if I survive the arena, I might never see her or Father again. They are both too sick. But I put that idea out of my mind. I have to win. I will win. The money and prizes will be enough to send them to the best doctors, perhaps even one from the Capitol. We'll have a big house on the edge of the District, away from the stinging haze that hangs over the Fabricators' Strip. There will be lots of room and fresh air, and plenty of clean water, and they will all be well again. I want to hug my sisters, but they look so fragile that I content myself by kissing them each on the forehead instead.

Father is the last to leave. He lingers in the doorway for a moment. I think he is also weighing the chances that we'll ever see each other again, just as I did, but he draws a different conclusion. He wets his cracked lips. "You just do what you have to do. We'll be fine."

Then they are gone. I sprawl out in the overstuffed chair again, but I am not quite as comfortable as I was. I concentrate on winning the Hunger Games, as I absently spin the leather bracelet around my wrist. No one else comes to see me.


	4. Train to the Capitol

The food at the Academy was nutritious and plentiful, made especially to fuel growing bodies during training, but that was just meaningless stuff to be eaten, like throwing wood scraps into a furnace. Every bite of the dinner on the train to the Capitol is almost as difficult to eat as the Gemcake by itself. I ask Bolgee Boh about the fantastic gossamer-iced cake that is on the sideboard, since it is at least two feet wide, and there is no way that even Chrome and I together can eat the whole thing. I am horrified when he laughs at me, and says that people in the Capitol eat just a piece or two and then throw the rest away. I can't bring myself to do that, at least not tonight. I fill my plate with a wide selection of the amazing food that is available, and try to arrange it into something attractive enough to be worthy of the chef who created it. Chrome hesitates while he chooses what to put on his plate as well. His arrangement looks somewhat better than mine. Bolgee Boh chuckles. "Your District chose Plush to be your mentor this year, and she should be along shortly. " He slurps a mouthful of soup, a creamy concoction swirled with orange gloss. Some of it drips onto the pristine white tablecloth. "I imagine it was very difficult to pick someone to mentor you two…District 1 has so many accomplished prior winners. Oh look, the recap is on!" He gestures excitedly to the television. "I haven't had a chance to see any of the live broadcasts of the Reaping. District 1 is first, and oh, see! There's our Dazzle!"

I see myself walking up to the stage, and I involuntarily compare myself to what I saw of my family earlier. I look like them, light brown hair and blue eyes, wide mouth and high cheekbones. But where they are thin and sallow, I am muscular and strong. Father walks slightly hunched over, something that I didn't notice until I see myself on video walking straight and tall. Mother looks feverish. My eyes are clear. Chrome looks magnificent, all hard lines and coiled power. I wonder how I could ever win in the arena over someone like that. Then I remember that I have actually beaten him fairly, many times, and I smile to myself.

I pay close attention to the rest of the highlights. I know that I won't be able to tell anything certain about the other tributes until I actually meet them during practice. But my trained eye watches, assessing for possible strengths and weaknesses. I knew that the boy and girl from District 2 were obvious threats, even before I see them or hear their names. Like District 1, it has its own system of pre-educating its tributes, even though it is supposedly illegal. The girl's name is Callida. At first I wonder whether she is actually a boy, but as soon as I see her walk more than a few steps, I realize that she is a very sinewy and angular young woman with closely cropped dark hair. The boy, Gaius, is even larger than Chrome, heavy and solid, with the musculature of an ape. He walks like one too, with swinging arms and thrusting shoulders. I suppress a giggle. Bolgee Boh shoots me an annoyed look and returns his adoring gaze to the television.

District 4 is the second contender that I must seriously consider. They do not have as consistent a history of training tributes for the Games as we and District 2 do, but it is always safe to assume that you will face strong tributes from there. The girl is healthy-looking, with naturally dark skin and long black hair. I can't hear her name over Bolgee Boh's exclamations. I can tell from the way she is subtly sizing up individuals that she has had some training as a fighter. I am not sure about the boy, though. I can't even guess how old he is. He's very small, like a child, but he is rugged-looking and wiry, with an extraordinarily dark tan that hides the condition of his skin. His sun-bleached hair is tattered and shaggy, and it blows into his eyes as he is prompted several times to tell the audience that his name is Kier Cauley.

The only other tribute that stands out to me during the highlights is a tiny girl from District 9. The Capitol representative calls her name, and the silence from the crowd is so profound that we can actually hear the sound of the wind in the wheat fields that surround them. Finally, she hobbles toward the stage. Her spine has a severe outward curve. Her hips are tilted and she sways precariously on bowed legs. What I thought at first was a child is actually nearly an adult woman, her height has been stunted by her misshapen back. There is only a spattering of half-hearted applause in response to the representative's cheery call, which quickly cuts to scenes from District 10's Reaping.

Plush comes into the car as they are showing District 12. She shakes her head as the two skinny, terrified tributes are led from their stage. Their mentor starts to follow them, weaves drunkenly for a few steps in the wrong direction and then stumbles face-first into a support beam. "Well, those two don't have to worry about getting sponsors," she quips to no one in particular.

Chrome and I were little more than babies during the 52nd Hunger Games, but we've seen the reruns of Plush's victory in the swampland arena. Her spectacular ambush attack from inside the carcass of a dead alligator always makes the Top Ten lists. This is the first time we've actually met her. The Academy knows it would be pushing the limits of what the Capitol is willing to let slide if it is generally thought that the former victors were training tributes for their Districts. She drops into a comfortable chair at the table, and tucks her hair behind her ear. "You two know how to fight," she begins matter-of-factly, "But winning the Games is more than just being able to use weapons. In the past, when our tributes have lost, it is because they were arrogant. They took dumb risks because they thought they were so strong that they didn't have to worry about the rest." She leans forward, making sure that Chrome and I are absorbing her words. "Either one of those scared little coal miners we just saw from 12 can swing a pick hard enough to break a rock, or your head. Tributes often know how to do other nasty things too, like setting trip lines and starting mudslides. You have more physical reserves than they do, but some of them can survive nearly indefinitely on grubs and stripped bark. Just because they are poor doesn't mean they are stupid or helpless, and both of you need to remember that. They will surely kill you if you give them the chance. So you're not going to give them the chance. Ally yourselves with some of the other tributes, right at the beginning. You will be able to watch each other's backs and pick off those outliers, so you don't have to worry about them when the real combats start."

"And we'll be able to see the stronger tributes in action," muses Chrome, "so by then we'll know who to watch out for."

"True," Plush agrees. "But they'll be trying to get information about you too. So pick something you want them to know about you, and stick with it. You, Chrome, I hear that you are good with a sword?"

He nods. "Any sword. Or two."

"Use just one to start with, and really show off with it. Let everyone know that you are the swordsman. That way if you have to throw or stab with something else, no one will be sure of exactly what you can do." She turns to me. "Which do you like better, spear or light staff?"

"Light staff." I am fine with either of them, but my best is actually dual blades. Filigree made sure that wasn't well-known, and I now I understand why. I'm positive that the Academy informed Plush, though, because the corner of her mouth quirks with amusement at my blatant lie.

"Then you start with a spear. That way, if you end up having to improvise a staff in the arena, you'll have an edge there. Even a stick will do." She takes a sip of the warm beverage in her cup. I catch a whiff of pungent brewed bittergreen and wonder why Plush is drinking that stuff. "I've been keeping tabs on the betting odds. Even before the scoring, you two are already the favorites, with that brute from District 2 being a very, very close second. That will help you a lot with the sponsors. I've already been talking to some of them, and I think some deals are about to be reached." She looks away from us, and frowns into her cup. "A lot of it depends on the arena itself though. No way to plan for that."

She doesn't speak again right away, and I have a few moments to study her. She is in her thirties, but she looks much older. It's not her hair, which only has a few threads of gray, or her skin, or wrinkles. She looks taut and hollow, like she hasn't been eating well. I remember the sloppy drunk who is mentoring for District 12, and I am suddenly very glad that I have Plush.


	5. Preparation for the Opening Ceremonies

My stylist's name is Vintius, but I cannot tell for sure whether a man or a woman is scrutinizing my face. Since the name is masculine, I mentally classify Vintius as a "he." His expression doesn't change, but I sense that he is not happy with what he sees. "How did you get that?" he asks, angling his nose toward the upper part of my face and raising a gold-rimmed monocle. His eye looks comically large, magnified within a halo of puffy pink eyelashes, as he examines the skin above my right eyebrow.

I raise my hand to my face and remember that I have a rough, reddish scar there that's about the size of a thumbprint. It's a fact of life in District 1 that some Academy students are perfectly willing to kill off their competition, in hopes of being selected themselves to volunteer for the Hunger Games. Some caustic solution had been rigged to splash when I opened my weapon cleaning kit, and a droplet hit me right there and stuck before I could get it off. Of course, I knew who had done it, and I squashed her Hunger Games ambitions right away. "It's a burn scar," I reply, not wanting to reveal too much about how it got there.

Vintius gives me a disdainful look, as if to say "Of _course _it's a burn scar," but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he stands thinking, tapping his chin with his monocle. He is silent for so long that I almost blurt out something rude about how much deep thought could possibly be required about makeup? But I am still. Finally, Vintius says, "I think some injectable filler will do the trick for that. I suppose we are lucky it isn't raised, or it would just have to be ground down and recolored and that would really push the schedule. No, I don't think that's too bad after all. I'll take care of it myself, after my team brings you up to the basic level of cosmetic appeal." I stiffen at that, but once again, it won't do any good to say anything. I doubt Vintius even realizes he's insulted me. He smiles, and his two front teeth have been filled with pink insets that match his eyelashes. "You'll look amazing for the opening ceremonies, Dazzle, I promise. You'll look d_azzling_!"

I pretend that is the first time I have heard that joke.

Vintius' prep team twitters and flutters like birds, cooing apologies every time something they do stings or burns. Kariolus is surprised and gratified that I have taken off my own body hair before I arrived at the Remake Center. "Just like a Capitol girl!" he says happily. "And you've done such a good job! All we have to do is throw on some inhibitor, peel the rough spots, retint some of those discolored patches, moisturize, buff you up, apply some glow, and you'll be stunning, positively stunning!"

Dio is painting my nails with some smelly plastic filler. "Her cuticles, ugh," he says, raising his eyebrows to Kariolus in dismay. "They look like she's been biting them. They are all raggedy and uneven."

"At least her hair is nice." Mimea has wrapped some of my light brown hair in long spirals and is applying some colored sticky foam that smells even worse than the nail filler. "She's got great texture, but some of the absolute best shampoos and volumizers are made in District 1. Did Vintius say he wanted her ultras to be Doe #7 or Golden Fawn?"

"I'm sure he said Golden Fawn for the ultras and Doe #7 for the mids," says Dio. His own hair is the brightest crimson red I have ever seen, braided tightly and standing straight up from the crown of his head, like the crest of an exotic bird. "The prep ticket said Vintius wanted to keep the overall honey undertone tone her hair has, though. I said I thought that amber was more of the "uptrend" color, but you know you can't tell stylists _anything_…"

They continue to chatter in their hissy Capital accents while they work. Most of the time, I have no idea what they are talking about. I stop listening after a while. I am buffed, filed, injected, oiled and varnished like a piece of refinished furniture. When the team's process is complete, it's time to put on my costume for the opening ceremonies. My entire body is covered with a layer of adhesive gold dust, painstakingly contoured with countless shades of darker gold. My hair is given a sprinkle of gold powder, to enhance the color that Mimea has so carefully applied. A sparkling gold cloth is tied around my hips and another carefully draped and knotted around my chest. Finally, tiny golden lights are pressed along the outside lines of my arms and legs, following my collarbones, my neck, and the arches of my eyebrows. Bolgee Boh claps his hands in delight when he sees me. "Oh, she looks like a goddess!" he squeals. "Vintius, you have outdone yourself this year!"

I don't see where my costume is any more original or imaginative than what I've seen on District 1 tributes in past broadcasts of the opening cermonies, but then what do I know about high fashion? Vintius bows gracefully, obviously pleased with the compliments. "She's almost too muscular to make it work, almost! But enough contouring makes angles curves and curves outstanding, I always say. I thought about making her eyes gold too, but they don't overpower the look, even if they are blue. One doesn't want to overdo…edit, edit, edit!"

"Oh, gold eyes might have been too much, I agree," says Boh. "There's something to be said for the natural look, isn't there? Oh, she's just lovely!"

Just then, I catch sight of Chrome. If I am a golden goddess, he is a silver god, almost sculpted from a single block of the purest metal. The silver cloth around his hips accentuates the width of his upper body, and the rows of white lights emphasize his shoulders and strong legs. He hardly looks like a real flesh-and-blood person. I am speechless for a moment, before I see that Chrome is just as struck with my appearance. We gawk at each other until I recover myself and whisper, "It's me. The girl who split your lip with a hammer."

Chrome laughs out loud, startling Vintius and Bolgee Boh. Boh titters nervously and glances down at his shoe to check his timepiece. "Oh, my, it's time to get into position! The chariot! The chariot, everyone!"

Our prep teams continue to touch up imaginary defects in our makeup as Chrome and I step onto our chariot. Something happens outside, at the end of the tunnel, because the massive crowd suddenly roars. I hear an announcer's voice carrying over the tumult, but it's too indistinct down here at the bottom of the Remake Center to make out what is being said. I feel the horses move, and the chariot lurches sharply before the gilded wheels begin to roll, but I easily maintain my balance. One of the other tributes, the girl from District 3, I think, looks like she is going to faint. She is gripping her chariot rail so tightly that the yellow skin on her knuckles turns white, and her head lolls backward. Her prep team fans her frantically with their towels, trying to revive her without disturbing the rows of colorful wire loops that embellish her costume. The girl from District 5 is posing with enthusiasm, tossing her hair and blowing kisses at the cameras. She's very buxom and pretty, and I bet that her mentor has told her to play up her attractiveness for the media since that's about all she's got to work with. Most of them are locked onto her, and her chariot hasn't even left the tunnel yet.

As our chariot passes into the packed avenue, the crowd roars again, and people surge against the barriers, waving flags with the District 1 seal and colors. I don't care what Chrome is doing, and I am not looking at him. Vintius told me not to wave or smile, but to look regal and strong, like a golden queen. Plush told me to scan the crowd, and meet as many individual eyes as I can. I am trying to do that, but there are so many people. I pick out one of the rooftop cameras panning over the procession, and I pin my gaze directly onto that lens, concentrating as if I want to burn it with my thoughts. The camera stops and I can see it lingering on me. I am District 1, and I will win the 68th Hunger Games, I say with my eyes and my stance. Any other consideration is wasted, and I want everyone watching to know it.


	6. Training

On the first day of training, I follow Plush's instructions. I choose a spear, and I demonstrate how I can stab, advance, block and throw with false casualness, as often as I can. Tributes are forbidden from engaging each other in combat during this time, even for practice, so I give some live assistants a few bloody gashes. But I prefer to work on a dummy, so I can pay attention to what the other tributes are doing.

Most of them are wandering around like nearsighted gemcutters. The majority head directly for the various weapon stations, but manage little more than uncontrolled, highly optimistic swings. I am trying hard not to laugh out loud at them, but I have seen four-year-old Tiros attack with more conviction than these. I try to keep Plush's warning about not automatically discounting anyone in mind, but it seems obvious that there is not much to fear from them. The flirty girl from District 5, who I find out is named Lumen, is actually holding a baton by the wrong end and ferociously whacking at a dummy with the molded handle.

I introduce myself to Callida and Gaius from District 2, and Fia Sukho from District 4. Chrome joins us, and it is an unspoken agreement that we five will band together in the arena, at least in the beginning. Callida avoids spending too much time with any particular weapon, just demonstrating general skill with each. I suspect that she is letting us know that she is not weak, but making sure we can't discover her true strengths. Gaius, on the other hand, has no restraint on showing murderous talent with anything that falls into his hands. I doubt that he even needs a weapon. He could just choke an opponent in his bent elbow, or wrestle someone's legs into a decorative knot. The other tributes tend to give way when he passes anywhere near them, and even the others of our alliance have to conquer our reflexive urges to do the same. He gives every appearance of being primitive and brutal, but I catch a glimpse of concealed intellect as he observes Chrome's swordwork. I think that Gaius might be the most dangerous tribute in this Hunger Games.

The young woman with the curved spine from District 9 and Kier Cauley, the boy from Fia's District, are spending most of their time sitting together. I can understand why she would think it was pointless to go to any of the training stations, but there's nothing wrong with him. I ask Fia what she knows about him, and she shrugs. He comes from a family of deep-sea fishers and has had no training. The boy tribute who was supposed to volunteer was killed in an accident the morning of the Reaping. Kier is only 12 years old, and it was just an unlucky fluke that his name was drawn in his first Reaping. Kier is sitting on the floor with his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest, his lips pressed tightly together. The nearly grown girl from District 9 is speaking to him earnestly, making passionate gestures with both hands. He is not having any of whatever she is telling him. I lose interest, and wonder if I should move to another weapon station, or maybe switch things up with one of the survival skill stations, though they aren't really that interesting.

I am still considering my options when I hear someone shout. Kier is on his feet, yelling angrily at the girl. "No, Winnow! They can put me into an arena, but they can't make me play their stupid game! "

Winnow reaches up to touch his leg, gently beseeching him to listen. "You have to try to save yourself. You'll be killed for sure if you don't."

I snicker. Well, that's the truth.

"I'm dead anyway!" The boy rages, waving his arms. "I'm being sent into the arena to be killed, and no matter what I do, that's exactly what's going to happen! And even if I win, what then? Do you think they'll just let me retire to a house on Victor's Island?" He suddenly noticed that the room had gone silent, and turned to us, looking us over. "And all of you? What do you think is going to happen to any of you who might win, huh?"

I know about the Victory Tour, but something about the intensity in his voice makes me sure he's not talking about that. I look at Fia. She rolls her eyes, obviously having heard this before. "You might as well shut up, Kier, you know the viewers can't see anything in here. You've got a big mouth, just like your mother and father," she concludes in a loud voice, pointedly sneering.

Kier glares at her with fire in his eyes. He is probably half Fia's size, but I think that if they had been alone, he might have flung himself at her in spite of that. Very gradually, though, he seems to deflate, melting back into the child that he actually is. "They are both dead. Soon, I will be too." He turns away and walks slowly across the gymnasium, avoiding all of the other tributes, and disappears into the dining room.

Winnow is trying to hide them, but tears spill from her brown eyes and drop onto her twisted legs. She doesn't look at any of us.

At the end of the three days of training, the Gamemakers release their scores, and Chrome and I assemble with Bolgee Boh and Plush to watch the results. The television shows a scorecard for each tribute, with his or her name, District seal, and score. Chrome is given a 9. I know I did well during my blade demonstration this afternoon, but I let out a quick breath of relief when I see that I also have a 9. I know that I am as good with any weapon as Chrome, but the official score confirms it. I take a quick glance at him out of the corner of my eye. If my score worries Chrome at all, he isn't showing it. Callida earns a 9. It is no surprise to any of us when we see that Gaius is awarded a 10. Fia has an 8.

Bolgee Boh is almost overcome with excitement and Plush's eyes narrow when they announce that Kier Cauley was given an 11. "An eleven! Can you imagine?" Bolgee Boh gushes. "That boy doesn't look like much, but he must have been super impressive in front of the Gamemakers!"

"Indeed." Plush's forehead is deeply wrinkled with thought. "This changes our strategy. You will need to eliminate him first, as soon as you can, so he won't have time to construct a defense or get anything useful from sponsors. With a score like that, I'm sure he'll have plenty of them, too." She absently drums the table with her fingers, still doing her mental calculations. "I wonder what his mentor was thinking? Whatever his skills are, it was a mistake to show them to the Gamemakers like that."

We are quiet for a while, as we see that Lumen, the pretty girl from District 5, has been given a 4, about average for someone who has no pre-education. No one else has a meaningful score, except for Winnow. The stunted girl from District 9 is given a 2.


	7. The Bloodbath

In spite of all my training, my mouth is a little dry as I sit alone in the Launch Room, waiting for Vintius to bring me my outfit. This is the first few minutes I've had to myself since I volunteered, and I'm not enjoying the lack of activity right now. I try to concentrate on winning the Hunger Games, and moving with my family into the big house in the Victor's Village, on the edge of the District. Every time I form a clear picture in my mind though, I hear Kier asking what we think really happens to the winners. I want to kill that little fool myself, right after the starting gong, even before I run to the Cornucopia, but that would be stupid. I doubt that even Gaius would risk attracting entire field of opportunists just to strangle one person.

Finally, Vintius comes with a large sealed box in hand. I am a little surprised to see that he's traded his fluffy pink eyelashes for bright yellow metallic strips that are probably each as long as his nose. "Time to get suited up!" he says cheerily. "Let's see what we've got this year." He pops the security strip with one finger and discards the lid. I hope that the outfit will give me a clue what to expect in the arena. There is a close-fitting top of some very light, sleek black material. The pants look about the same, except they are much heavier, almost like some sort of plastic or rubber, with reinforced knees. The footwear is rugged boots with thick, deep treads and a tough cap covering the toe. Over everything goes a very thin jacket that feels like silk or something similar, but it borders on being uncomfortably warm in the Launch Room. Besides a few pinstripes on the arms and legs and a large district emblem on the back of the jacket, the outfit isn't very colorful, differing from what I've seen tributes wear before during the Games. I am not sure what to make of these details at all. Vintius brushes my hair, and rolls it back into a bun like the one I am used to wearing. Then he looks me over carefully, artfully pulling out a few strands. "That's good," he says at last, stepping back. "I wish I could pink up your cheeks a little more, but the Gamemakers don't allow makeup kits in the Launch Room. Now go out there and do well! We stylists aren't allowed to bet, but if you win, I've already got an endorsement deal lined up for us with Peccara!"

At that moment, the announcer lets us know that it's time to prepare for launch. "I don't know who that is," I admit, as the countdown begins.

"Oh surely you've heard of Peccara?" Vintius looks shocked. "Lazi Peccara? His design house uses a lot of products from your District. His clothes are _amazing_, positively to die for. Well, I'm sure you'll get to see them if you come back. Onto the plate, now. Don't worry, you look fabulous!"

I'm glad of that anyway, though that's the very last thing on my list of worries as the glass cylinder lowers around me. I feel the circular plate at my feet begin to rise, lifting me though the cylinder and into the arena. I roll my shoulders to ease my tension, as I rise, focusing on all I've been told and all I've learned about the other tributes during training. I am prepared for everything but the total darkness that I see at the top of the launch tube. As I am gradually raised past the level of the arena, I can see absolutely nothing. I perceive someone shrieking in panic, but it is fairly distant from my position. I feel a brief shudder as my plate stops moving and locks into place. Wherever I am is cool and smells dank, with very little moving air. Then the lights come up, though it is only about as bright as twilight.

I am in a vast cave. I can't tell how large it is because it is too dark to see all the way across, but the roof is fairly low and studded with rock points. The floor is uneven and muddy, with slippery spots that shine in the dim light. The tributes are distributed evenly in a circle around the Cornucopia, the golden horn that holds all the weapons and survival gear. Other little items are scattered around, some within easy reach. There is a flimsy plastic oval with tiny serrated teeth around its edge only a few paces away, but I know that I am going straight for the good stuff at the center. To my immediate left, Callida is perched tautly on her launch plate, ready to throw herself forward at the sound of the gong. On my right is the girl with the yellowish skin from District 3, who almost fainted on her chariot during the opening ceremonies. She has tears streaming down her face, though she looks ready to run and has her eyes on the oval tool. I wonder if it was her I heard screaming, but I don't think so. I think I see Chrome on the other side of the circle from me, but in the dim light, I can't be sure. Kier is on my right, three places down from me. To my surprise, the tough, angry boy is also crying, and taking false steps off his starting plate. What is he trying to do? I wonder. We all know that the ground is studded with concealed explosives that will blow someone into biscuit spread if he leaves the plate before the gong. But Kier keeps acting as if he is going to step off and repeatedly changing his mind. Finally he crumples to his knees and covers his head with his arms, shaking with terror. I don't know what to make of it, and exchange glances with Callida, who apparently can't figure it out either.

Then there is no more time to wonder. The gong crashes, and I start running. Several of the tributes take off into the darkness at the edge without taking time to grab anything. Screams and wails start to echo in the cavern as fights begin. I am about halfway to the Cornucopia when someone crosses my path and slips. Without even looking to see who it is, I kick him or her in the head, and vault over the prone body. I don't worry about finishing off the other tribute. There will be time for that when I get a weapon in my hand. The boy from District 7 is standing over the bleeding body of the girl from 7, laughing maniacally as he pounds her over and over, shouting vile names at her. They must have had some history from their home District, and he is taking his revenge now.

Callida reaches the Cornucopia before I do. She has picked up a spiked rod on the end of a long chain, and she is whirling it in a fast, deadly circle over her head. I didn't see any short blades while I was waiting for the gong, but I see a utility knife now that I grab and tuck into the ankle of my boot. Then I close my hand over the shaft of a fine spear, the first real weapon I see. A boy who has made it this far dashes past me and grabs for a tent pack. I slam the butt of my spear into his ankle, tripping him, and he goes down screaming. A sharp crack on the chin with the shaft keeps him down, while I turn the spear around and drive the point through his neck. I am sprayed with a lance of blood. The girl from District 3 is right beside me, staring in horror. She has just realized that she's made a terrible mistake and nothing she can get from the Cornucopia right now is worth the instant death she sees splashed across my face. She pivots quickly and starts to run at full speed away from the center. I pull my spear from the boy's body and hurl it. It catches the girl in the lower part of her back, and she falls full length, as if she had run into a wall. I jog over. She is lying in a spreading pool of her own blood, whimpering, rapidly losing consciousness, still clutching the little serrated oval. My spearpoint is entirely buried in her pelvis. I rip the spear free in case anyone gets any ideas to attack me while I am busy, but I can see that she is finished. When she stops squirming a few seconds later, I take the tool. If she hadn't stopped to pick it up, she might have gotten further in toward the center. She might even have gotten away with something more valuable.

Chrome calls to me. He's holding a stabbing sword that is covered with blood, and I see a bulge under his shirt that I am certain is something he's picked up and is hiding. "I think it's about over. Let's go see what we've got." He points at the oval I am holding. "What's that?"

"Nothing, just some junk," I answer, tossing it aside.

"Speaking of junk…" Chrome gestures to the edge of the starting circle. Kier is still hunched in his original place. Now his hands are over his ears, and he is rocking back and forth. "What in the world is he doing?"

Gaius appears at Chrome's side, startling all of us with the silence of his approach. "Doesn't matter," he grunts, grabbing a club. He makes his way across the muddy floor that has been churned by the initial stampede of tributes. Kier stops rocking, but does not look up. He makes no sound as Gaius bashes his skull with a single savage blow.


	8. The Career Pack

**Author's Note: The end is in sight! I have the rest of the story plotted out, and just have to write it. **

Long before the cannon shots announce the number of dead, we have already counted the bodies around the Cornucopia. We find twelve, and congratulate each other on eliminating half the field within the first few minutes. We take turns sorting through the gear and serving as lookouts, though we are watching each other as carefully as we are for anyone else. While there are choice items for shelter, warmth and collecting and disinfecting water, I am dismayed to find that there is very little food. There's a handful of sticks of dried meat, some little boxes of things like crackers and popcorn, and a bag of dried fruit. I stand up with a grimace. "I don't think there's enough food here to last for more than a day or so, maybe two or three if we ration it." I doubt that the rationing idea is going to get more than lip service, but I say it anyway.

"We should find those who got away before we have to worry about rationing," says Callida. She doesn't have to mention that we'll start fighting each other for food before we ration any of it. It would be better to pick off as many of the others as we can before that happens. "At least water won't be a problem. It's everywhere in here."

"Maybe we should cache a couple of things around," offers Chrome. "In case we get cut off from the Cornucopia."

It's not a bad idea, and I'm not the only one who takes a moment to think about it. Gaius says, "I'd agree with that, if we knew what the landscape was like. There could be tunnels or who knows what all over here, and I don't want to leave things we want to use lying around for someone else to pick up."

"There's plenty of backpacks," Fia notes, after a silent count. "Let's carry everything we can with us. That way when we move, we won't leave anything essential."

"Right," Chrome remarks. "I'll carry all the food."

We all have to chuckle at that. Since there is no way the amount of food we have is going to sustain any one of us for very long, we opt to divide it more or less evenly, and each carry some. To steal any, the thief would have to kill the person carrying it, and he wouldn't be able to get away with all of it. We pack the rest of our bags with individual sleeping bags, water bottles, matches, and whatever else will fit. As we are finishing, another cannon shot takes us by surprise. "Huh," says Callida. "I wonder who got offed."

"Probably the gimp," Gaius answers, not stopping what he's doing. "I didn't see her body here, did any of you?" None of us had, which is strange, now that I'm thinking about it. If she'd had any sense, Winnow would have limped away from the Cornucopia, as fast as she could, but it seems likely that someone would have taken her out before she had gotten very far. But maybe no one had.

We explore the cavern in shifts, leaving someone behind to guard the Cornucopia each time. Around the dark edges of the cave, we find four passageways leading away, at 90-degree angles from each other, like points on a compass. We decide not to waste precious batteries and matches making enough light to investigate those without a more organized plan.

Then we hear the opening notes of the Anthem. Without being able to see the sky, none of us realized that evening had come, and it is time to see who had died today. The pictures, the same portraits of faces that had been shown during the scoring, are being projected onto some smooth surface that can be seen from any point in the arena. I wonder how that is being done, since there are separate underground passages. Maybe we aren't actually underground. Or maybe we are, and there are many separate video feeds. That would be untraditional, but not impossible.

It starts with the picture of the girl from District 3 that I impaled with my spear. Then the pasty-faced boy from 3. Kier's face is next, and I am disturbed when I remember his death. He didn't do anything at all to defend himself, or even to run away. When I think about it, it was obvious, even during training, that he was planning to do something like that, though at the end he couldn't bring himself to jump onto the explosives. A score of eleven? Why would the Gamemakers have given him an eleven?

Both of the tributes from District 5 are still alive, because the display skips them and goes immediately to the girl and then the boy from District 6. I wonder if the fives have teamed up. Sometimes tributes from the same District band together, forgetting that the alliance will last only as long as a tribute from somewhere else is still alive. The boy from 7 who so gleefully slaughtered his fellow tribute right at the opening gong is still alive, but both tributes from 8 appear. Winnow's face is next, so Gaius must have been right. She didn't die during the bloodbath, but something happened to her later.

The boy from 10 that I killed at the Cornucopia.

The girl from 11.

Both of the scared little coal miners from 12.

So that leaves eleven living tributes in total, six that we have to hunt down in the dark tunnels before we can settle the issue of a winner between us. I am reminded of the food situation by a low grumble from my stomach, but I don't dare to eat. If I am getting hungry at the end of the first day, I can guess that the others are feeling it too. But I am astounded when Fia shouts, "Now!" and launches herself at Gauis.

He blocks her first sword assault with his club. She catches him across the knee with a brutal kick. He sucks in his breath through his teeth and shifts his weight. It was a good strike, but it wasn't quite hard enough to make him go down. As he maneuvers his club to a better position, Gaius lashes out with his unencumbered fist. Fia easily dodges the blow. She keeps glancing to her sides, as if she is expecting something to happen, then clenches her jaw when it does not. I should probably join her. It might be my best chance to take down Gaius. But I see Chrome and Callida watching like hungry wolves, and my odds against both of them if they should suddenly decide to double up against me aren't much better than my odds alone against Gaius. At least by holding back now, I don't take the chance of being needlessly injured when I have to face them later. If Fia happens to win, great. If Gaius wins, well, one less thing to worry about.

Fia circles. Gaius stands like a monolith. I do not see anger in his face, but solid determination and acceptance of facts. Fia harasses him with her sword point, probing for vulnerability, each attempt deflected. But there is only one weakness, and eventually she drops her stance and slashes at his already injured knee.

During training, I saw that Gaius has been taking advantage of his ape-like appearance to feign dullness, and suddenly, Fia knows it too. He has been subtly prompting her to make the second attempt on his knee, and one lightning smash knocks the weapon from her hand. Before she can recover, Gaius grabs Fia around the throat with one gigantic hand, crushing her windpipe. He whips her around to the side of the Cornucopia and repeatedly slams her face into the golden wall. When he finally releases Fia, her lifeless body slides down the side, leaving a thick, dark trail. Gaius shakes the slick of blood from his right hand, and wipes sweat and spatter from his eyes with his forearm. He blinks at us warily as the cannon shot for Fia echoes through the cave, appraising the rest of us coolly, weighing his options. I can almost see the calculations being made. One of us made a secret agreement with Fia to attack Gaius at a prearranged signal, only the conspirator left Fia high and dry. I wonder whether it was Callida or Chrome. Perhaps it was both of them, although that seems unlikely to me. No, if the three of them had been able to come to some arrangement without Gaius or I finding out, it would have been to their mutual advantage to go ahead and kill him right then. Depending on how the fight went, I might have been next.

Gaius nods, his decision made. He shoulders his backpack, and picks up Fia's. No one argues with him. "I'm going this way," he announces, gesturing in the direction of one of the side tunnels and beginning to run, heavily favoring his injured knee. His message is clear…you can find me or avoid me for now, whichever you prefer.

With Fia dead and Gaius retreating into the darkness, there is nothing to stop Callida and Chrome from potentially ganging up on me if they feel like it. Chrome knows from experience that I could beat him if we fought alone, and it might be worth it to him to trust Callida long enough to make sure that doesn't happen. If I do it fast enough, I suppose I could make an alliance of my own. But one of them has already reneged on a bargain like that, and I don't think I'll give him or her the chance to do it again. I take up my pack and sprint for another passageway before Callida has time to send her weapon chain whirring into my back.

Some minutes later, I hear a cannon shot.


	9. R & R

Sometimes I have to scrabble my way up rocky slopes, or pull myself on my belly through crevices that are barely wider than my shoulders, but I keep moving. Most of the cave system is very dimly lit, like a night with a full moon. Some places I pass through are somewhat brighter, and I notice patches of luminescent fungi growing here and there. I guess it's been several hours from the way my body feels, but there isn't any way to know for sure. The cave is almost uncomfortably cool, but very humid, and I am clammy with sweat inside my jacket. I am bruised and scratched in many places and covered in smelly mud. I had no idea that cave mud sucks all the moisture out of skin as it dries, and the exposed skin of my face and hands is parched. My fingertips and palms are getting rubbed raw from grabbing at the rough stone, and I wish I had some gloves. Even the places where I have calluses from weapons training are getting worn down.

The swell of a large flowstone catches my eye. It looks like it might have a flat top and I decide to see if it is a protected enough place for me to rest. I don't find any good handholds on the stone's smooth, knobby surface, but the rubberized toes of my boots give me enough traction to force my way up the side. I'm right, it is mostly flat at the top, with a gentle slope to one side. In the center of the area there is a pool of water that's collecting from a continuous slow drip from overhead and then spilling down the front of the stone, but there's plenty of room for me. There is a shallow hole at the back, little more than a divot of missing rock. It's not large enough for me to hide inside, but I put my backpack in it, so no one can see by just passing by. If I lay flat, I doubt that I can be seen unless someone else is actively searching for a hiding spot. And if anyone does actually come up here, it will be like walking into a lion's den, I think grimly.

I unwrap one of the beef sticks. The smell is enough to make my stomach growl a loud complaint, and I'm only hungry, not even starving yet. I eat half of it and carefully put the rest away. I wonder if there is anything to hunt in here? I could make a trap out of something and try to scoop some cave minnows or crayfish. I'm not sure if bats are safe to eat, but I haven't seen any. Making a fire to cook with wouldn't be such a good idea. It would stand out in the darkness like a signal flare. And I wouldn't so much as taste any fungus unless I was dying of hunger and ready to make an end of it anyway. Now I regret not spending more time at the survival stations at the training center. At least there's plenty of water. I don't even want to think of what condition I'd be in without it.

I wouldn't be worrying about this at all, if Fia hadn't jumped Gaius, I think grumpily. We could have found everyone else before the food ran out, and then it wouldn't have mattered. The Hunger Games isn't built on trust, but it sure would have helped. Now I have to watch my own back against every single tribute who is still alive in this hole, not just against the other four. I'm hungry, cold, tired, and generally miserable. Kier took the easy way out by just sitting there on the starting plate. It's already over for him. But how easy was it really to just sit there and let Gaius kill him?

The whole thing is bothering me a lot, now that I have time to just be still and think about it. Kier seemed to think that his Reaping wasn't random. But how could it be anything else? It was just a coincidence that the tribute who was going to volunteer in his place had been killed that morning. If I had been killed…

The Academy would simply have nominated another girl to volunteer. There were plenty of us. I touch the scar above my eyebrow. The cosmetic injection treatment has made it perfectly smooth, as if the chemical burn had never happened. I don't know how things are done in District 4, but I know their tributes arrive at the Games ready and well-trained. It doesn't make sense for them to focus their resources on training just one person, and risk the possibility that the one won't be able to volunteer. They had to have trained several. So why didn't they just tap someone else?

What was it that Fia had said to Kier? That he had a big mouth, just like his mother and father? Kier said they were dead. What happened to them? When did they die?

Why didn't he think he would just be allowed to go live on his District's Victor's Island, even if he had won?

He thought it was pointless to win. Well, maybe for him. If his family had been making trouble for the Capitol, maybe he was right. But I've never done anything like that, and neither has my family. So there's no reason for me to believe that I won't be able to take them with me to Victor's Village after the Games. Except that I'm having more difficulty believing it than I did before Reaping Day.

I'm tired, and too confused to make sense of my racing thoughts. I listen for a minute or so to make sure no one is approaching my perch. Then I unroll my sleeping bag and climb inside. The plicks and plunks of water falling into the pool from the ceiling of my stony nest lull me to sleep very quickly.


	10. Bored Audience, Bad Things

The blaring anthem jolts me awake, and I bump my head on the edge of the alcove that holds my backpack. How long have I been asleep? Gaius killed Fia right after they showed the deaths for that day. I had been on the move for hours after that. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but I feel somewhat better. I sip some water and watch the broadcast. I almost spit out what I am drinking when I see Chrome's face projected into the darkness. _Chrome?_ He was a very strong tribute. I thought that the only people who had any real shot at taking him in hand-to-hand combat were Gaius and myself. I'm not certain, but I don't think Gaius would have come back with the two of them still at the Cornucopia. Unless he met with some random accident in the cavern, the most likely answer is that Callida killed him, which means that I had underestimated her. The fact that he is dead doesn't make me sad, exactly, though I am feeling something heavy in my chest. I didn't know him well, but I knew him. There is something very personal about the death of someone you know that I didn't expect to feel for Chrome.

Fia's portrait is no surprise to me, but I wonder what the other tributes are thinking about that. Two of the strongest tributes are dead on the same day, so early in the Games. I don't know if that would give me hope or worry me, if I was one of them. The girl from District 10 is next. I hadn't heard a third cannon shot, so now I don't know whether Callida killed Chrome as I was running from them, or later, while I was asleep. I guess it doesn't matter. Those three are the only deaths for today. Since they just broadcasted the count, it must be the end of the second day of the Games. My odds keep getting better and better, in absolute terms.

I think I'll stay here on top of this flowstone a while longer. This would be a great point for an ambush. There's enough light here so I can see what's coming from all around, and it's not so high up. I could jump down on someone without getting hurt in the fall. There doesn't seem to be any good reason to just run around the cave, not knowing whether another tribute is nearby until you practically run into him. The little bit of food I have will probably last longer too, if I stay put.

I am rolling up my sleeping bag and considering eating some crackers, when I notice that the dripping from the rock above my head seems to be coming a lot faster. As I watch, it changes from a steady drip into a thin stream. A sliver of stone bounces off my head, and another one falls into the pool. I have no idea what's happening but I some instinct screams for me to grab my backpack and jump off the stone. A second later, I hear a deep, sickening rumble from far inside the earth. A heaving wave swells beneath my feet, throwing me to the floor. I scramble up and run for my life. Rock dust is spewing from opening fissures, spreading into heavy clouds that make me cough. I hold the corner of my jacket over my mouth and nose in hopes of filtering out some of it. The dust is so thick that I can't see at all. Maybe Callida or Gaius, being quarriers from District 2, or the miners from District 12 would have known what to do in a cave-in. I have no idea, so I just move, stumbling a few times as I blindly follow the cave wall to where I hope is "away." Another swell throws me down again, and this time I am falling. I hit bottom on my side hard enough to startle me into taking a large lungful of dust. I fling my arms over my head and curl up as much as I can, but I am pelted with small falling rocks that bruise me with every impact. I am going to die here, buried under this stupid mountain, without so much as a weapon in my hand.

Suddenly, it is very quiet. The rock beneath me is isn't moving, even though there is still a lot of dust hanging in the air. My mouth is full of gritty paste…mixed rock dust and spit, I guess. When I try to uncurl myself from my fetal position, I feel a sharp pain in my side, but I freeze when I hear a cannon shot. A moment later, I hear another. Two tributes died in this cave-in. I can't help but hope that they were Gaius and Callida.

The haze is becoming somewhat thinner as the dust settles, and I can see an open area of very dim light above me. So I've fallen into a crevasse or a hole. I wonder how deep it is. I roll over, getting ready to stand, but pain lances through the left side of my chest wall, making me gasp, which hurts even worse. I bite my lip, trying to take shallower breaths, trying to not to scream in case anyone is within earshot. I might have some broken ribs, and who knows what else might be bruised or punctured under them. I gingerly ease myself into sitting upright, but it is not easy, and I feel a little sick and dizzy when I'm done. As I am able to see more, I realize that I am in a pit some twenty-five or thirty feet deep, and much wider at the top than at the bottom. It's a wonder that I wasn't hurt more than I am. I see many solid-enough looking ledges of broken stone above me, but I don't see any that I can reach.

There are plenty of loose rocks at the bottom of the hole with me that had been shaken loose in the quake. I think I could pile them up and make something like a stairway or a ramp. I manage to stand by grabbing the rough wall and hauling myself up, leaning against it with my right shoulder. The cave seems to be spinning, and my stomach lurches with nausea. Standing is about ambitious as I can get right now. Even if I could somehow move the rocks, climbing them is out of the question.

I want to cry in frustration, but if anyone else is nearby, they would hear me. What I don't need right now is for someone to find me here, where they could kill me easily. Even just dropping rocks on me would work, given enough time. Of course, enough time will kill me just as well. There's not even any water down here. Once I drink what little bit I have in my container, I have no way to get more.

Sitting down is easier than standing up was. All I have to do is let myself slide down the wall, and try not to yelp when I land. At least my pack is down here with me. I rummage through it using just my right arm, keeping my left sealed around my ribs. The sleeping bag comes out little by little. There's a stiffened paper packet that is marked as "pain medicine," and I find six pills inside. I don't know how many to take, and I'm not even sure I should eat or drink anything. If I have internal injuries, taking medicine or food could just make things worse. Of course, I suppose that "worse" is a relative term. I take one of the pills and wash it down with a mouthful of my precious water. I decide that I might as well eat something too. All I've had in the last two days is half of a beef stick, and I need some calories if I am going to have any chance of recovery. So I choke down some leathery dried fruit and the other half of the beef stick. At least it doesn't hurt to swallow, and nothing bad happens over the next few minutes.

Looking for a miracle, I sift through some other things that I forgot I had stuffed into the pack as we looted the Cornucopia, but it's all junk to me. For just a moment, I am envious of the tributes from the poorer districts who could probably cobble something useful from these odds and ends. My spear is buried under tons of rock back at the flowstone, but I doubt I could use it as anything other than a strong stick to lean on, at the moment.

I work the sleeping bag behind my back to protect me from the cold stone, and lap the ends together across my chest. There's nothing I can do now, except wait, and hopefully think of some way to get out of this pit.


	11. A Word From Our Sponsor

The pain medicine I took seems to be working. I'm not asleep, exactly, but my mind is wandering. I drift in and out, always conscious of the pain in my side, and of the cold rock walls around me, but I'm not able to summon enough concentration to care very much. Once I think I see someone at the rim of the pit peering down at me, looking like a pale dot of a face with two anonymous dark eyes from so far above, but before I can focus, it is gone. Another time, I hear a reverberating crack, and I wonder if there has been another cave-in. But as the echo dies, I realize that it was a cannon shot.

I'm vaguely aware of being hungry and thirsty. I've only ever been either when we were deprived as part of our training at the Academy. Though I've heard rumors about starvation being common in other districts, I don't know of anyone in District 1 who has actually died that way. Though the hollow feeling isn't particularly bothersome, it prompts my wandering thoughts toward the elegant little treats that people make during Color Fair. Of course, the Color Fair isn't anywhere near as grand as the celebrations that the District organizes for the Hunger Games, and in lean years we don't even manage to have it at all. Each of our color factions usually has its own informal annual party to greet new members, wish outgoing members well, and to memorialize those who have passed away during the year. I haven't been to one of these "Yellows" in years, though they are kind of fun. The best fun happens when when all of the different groups can collaborate on a Color Fair. There's music, dancing, and craft judgings with prizes… Mother is the best at tooling leather, and she usually wins a champion's ribbon. The different color factions serve their signature foods, never very much of it, but what they present is always top quality and decorated to perfection. The Yellows make delicate, feathery wafers out of pounded tesserae grain and flavor them with pulped goldmint. I don't know the exact process, but I remember the smooth batter being stored in clay jugs for a long time before it was used. Long ago, someone figured out how to extract small amounts of sugars from the plain grain, so we stencil the wafers with a very thin slurry of sweet icing. I haven't tasted any since I was about twelve years old, but my mouth waters savagely at the memory of those special treats.

I wonder what my family is doing right now. I'm sure they've been watching the Games every night, as that's mandatory. I'm not wearing the leather wristband my sisters made for me, because the Gamemakers decided that a buckleable leather strap could be too useful in the arena. They are probably right about that, but it's a shame. The bracelet was very pretty. Just by being raised in District 1, I know how to appreciate beautiful things, but I'd never had a durable luxury item of my own until then. I'm finding it difficult to picture them at home, though. I haven't actually been "home" for more than a few days at a time since I was a child. Last year, I wasn't permitted to go at all.

It occurs to me that if I win the Hunger Games and get the house in the Victor's Village, I won't actually be able to move them in until the next year, after I come back from the Victory Tour. Father and Mother were so sick when I saw them on Reaping Day. Nearly everyone in the District has the "poison" to some degree. We use many different chemical compounds to make the things we do in District 1, and the Fabricators' Strip literally stinks of them. They hang in noxious clouds of vapor and smoke, and streams of runoff carve paths through the dirt. Even people who don't have to live in lofts over own their shops have to regularly clean powdery black dust from every surface in their homes. Suddenly my heart feels more hollow than my stomach. How did I not see it? Father won't last another year. Mother probably won't either. After enough time, if you don't get better, all the medicines we can get stop working, and you die. It's not unheard of for people to survive after the remedies run out, but it they are just as likely to be sick for years before they eventually succumb. Even if they are fortunate enough to recover, they will never be fully healthy. Like my sisters aren't, now. My little brother isn't sick yet. If he gets selected for Academy training, he will be taken away from the Strip. He won't get the poison, at least not until he exits. He won't ever get it, if he is selected to volunteer as tribute, like me. But sitting at the bottom of a hole nursing dregs of food and water with trained killers waiting for you to make a mistake isn't much better than getting the poison. It's a slow death over years with your family versus a relatively quick death in the Arena and a life afterward with no one you care about. I know that now.

Everyone is playing the Hunger Games. They just don't all know it.

My side is hurting again, deep inside, worse than before. I could take another pill, but there doesn't seem to be much point in it. I'll run out of those too, eventually. I think about taking all of the pills at once. Somehow I doubt that the Gamemakers would allow a lethal dose of painkillers to be in the Cornucopia. They provide everything that lets us kill each other, but suicide isn't sportsmanlike. I giggle a little at that word, as if anything about the Hunger Games is "sportsmanlike," but even that small motion of my chest wall makes me groan and grit my teeth.

Something lands softly in my lap. I see a silver parachute settling across my legs, floating down over whatever is fastened beneath it. A gift from the Sponsors? I open the cylinder clumsily, propping it between my knees and using my right hand. Inside is a rolled sheet of what appears to be cloth with some sort of plastic film adhered to side. It's about the size of both of my spread hands, and it the smell of strong medicine seeps from the unsealed edges. There is a little scrap of paper in it too, with a printed note.

"Peel. Stick to ribs. Climb out."

It sounds like what we would call a plaster, medicine spread over rags and stuck onto a wound or sore place. I slowly peel the plastic film away from the cloth, which releases more of that medicinal stink. It doesn't seem to be sticky, so I wonder how it is going to stay on me. Carefully, carefully, I ease it under my shirt and smooth it over my side. As soon as it is in position, it bonds to my skin, and I am startled by a sudden penetrating, spreading warmth. I start to feel better almost instantly. This is amazing! This is medicine that they have available to them at the Capitol, and just dribble out to the Districts. My mother, father and sisters stand no chance of ever having medicine this effective, even if I win. It would never be permitted. If they let anyone outside have it, everyone else who has the poison would be willing to do anything to get it, even defy the Capitol. They have to be kept sick…the Capitol can't afford to have too many of us well.

I think that Kier was right about winning being ultimately pointless.

I don't know what I am going to do with this new understanding, but right now, I know that I need to get out of this pit. The pain is fading rapidly, and I find no difficulty standing. I start pushing stones and broken cave rubble into a hopefully stable pile. If I can stack it, perhaps like stairs, I should be able to reach one of the ledges and haul myself out.


	12. Trailblazer

I essentially build a narrow pyramid out of mud and fallen stones, and finally drag myself out of that pit. I know it took a long time because the Anthem played twice while I worked and napped by turns. I could not see the video display from the bottom of the pit, but I had not heard any more cannon shots, and I doubt that anyone else had died since the cave-in. I'm dirty, sweaty, tired, scratched, bruised to my very bones and hungrier than I have ever been in my life, but at least my ribs don't hurt. And for what it's worth, I'm out of that rotten hole.

I refill my bottle several times with water that seems to be running everywhere, and greedily suck in as much as I can hold. Even though it's scummy cave water, it tastes so good that I suddenly feel guilty for not marking the occasion. I force myself to stop drinking and pour a little bit over my hand, watching it glide over my cracked fingers in rivulets and glisten briefly in flight before rejoining the muddy stream. I've never given full appreciation to the beauty of water before, and I'm sad that it has to come to me in a situation like this.

As I watch the last beads of water drip from my hand, I notice something strange about the cave wall. Very close to the floor, there is a chipped mark that seems out of place. It is almost perfectly horizontal and parallel to the ground, some four or five inches long, and slightly thicker at one end. It could have been gouged into the wall by falling rock, but it doesn't look quite like the other damaged places. On a hunch, I follow the wall in the direction of the narrower end. About fifty feet later, I find another, identical mark. It seems that someone else has been through here, and was clever enough to blaze a trail. It's such a good idea that I wish I had thought of it, and wonder whether the tribute who etched these lines is still alive. I shoulder my pack and begin to follow the trail. I'm not sure what I'll do if or when I find the other tribute. Since I realized that winning the Games probably won't save my family after all, I'm not as interested in victory as I was. I don't really want to die, but I especially don't want to die in some stupid, meaningless way, either. Is there a way to live through the Hunger Games without actually being a Victor?

Whoever made this trail was pretty straightforward in his travelling. He did not venture into completely dark tunnels at all. Occasionally, he would go down a passage that narrowed into a dead end, then turn back, always leaving his marks on the right-hand side. I hike easily for several miles, following the highway of lines scratched into the rocks without having to crawl, or even needing to do more than bend at the waist. Suddenly a change in the markings makes me stop short. A little dot has been pecked into the stone just under the arrow-shaped line. I kneel for a closer look, which confirms my first thought, that it's not simply a natural variation in the stone. That dot was chipped on purpose, but I don't have any idea of what that purpose is. Could it be where the trail blazer changed direction? Or where he came from a different direction and crossed a path he'd already marked?

While I'm pondering the puzzle, I hear tentative footsteps moving in my direction from in front of me. I more quickly but with silence, as I have been trained, and conceal myself as best I can in the shadow of an overhanging rock shelf. A dark-skinned boy, very tall and thin, comes into view, looking about him fearfully as he advances. It's the boy from District 9. The name "Teff" comes to me, though I don't remember much about him. My first instinct is to slide the concealed knife from my boot and take my opportunity to cut his throat, but I see that he is purposefully moving toward something I hadn't noticed. I can't see what he's going for from my hiding place, but I can see in his eyes that he wants it badly. Like a frightened deer, he inches forward slowly, reaching for the object of his desire.

The floor collapses under him, and he disappears, screaming. There is a squelching sound, and the screams of startled fright turn to agonized wails. A single bloodied hand flails above the rim of the hole he has fallen into, and I hear the muted sounds of his feet slapping against the stone. Although I have been trained to kill, I am too shocked to move. What just happened?

I have no way to mark the time, but it seems like forever before Teff's cries turn to bubbling moans and then to silence. I should go and finish him off, but I am frozen in place. I tell myself that it's because I don't know what else is down there, but my twisting stomach argues otherwise. I have killed before. I've even killed at least two people in this very arena, but both were quick, without cruelty, and without time to consider anything other than technique. I've even seen tributes die slowly from infection or dehydration during broadcasts of previous Hunger Games. But I've never experienced anything like this lingering suffering unedited and in person.

I'm transfixed with horror until the cannon shot startles me so badly that I jump. After a little longer, I scrub my forearm over my moist eyes, and creep forward.

Teff looks as if he is crouched at the bottom of the hole, his head hanging limply to one side. A crudely sharpened stick, perhaps the wooden handle separated from another weapon, protrudes from just under his collarbone, and he is awash in blood. Now that I'm closer, I see how this was done. There was a natural hole here, something like a wide stone crack that had been worked on the sides to make them slope more steeply toward the bottom. The rock edges had been broken by someone using some sort of tool, or perhaps even another rock. A sheet of thin plastic, something that someone else might have used for a rain shelter, had been stretched across and anchored with stones. Smaller chips of stones and carefully applied mud had been used to camouflage the hole. The pointed stick had been braced at the bottom, waiting for a victim. My eyes drift to whatever Teff had been so interested in that it cost him his life. A little plastic bag containing a handful or two of dried fruit and nuts had been laid out on a shoulder-high stone directly across from the trap, looking for all the world as if it had been carelessly abandoned rather than cunningly placed.

I'm too jarred to think logically at first, but over time, the instincts I have acquired over a lifetime of training take over. Who could have set that trap? Who is still alive? I missed a few evening broadcasts while I was trapped after the cave-in. I count the cannon shots that I remember hearing, matching when I heard them to what I was doing at the time, and figure that besides myself, there are three tributes still alive. It would be safest to assume that two of them are Gaius and Callida. So there is one other unknown tribute alive. I wonder if that one is the trap-maker. If I am lucky, the trap-maker is already dead, but I seriously doubt it.

As I cautiously reach across the pit and retrieve the little bag of food, I recall the blazed mark that had made me stop in the first place. The additional little dot must mean that a trap is nearby. If I pay attention, I might be able to avoid a similar fate myself. With this bit of knowledge, I decide to keep following the trail of lines.


	13. A Segment of Normalcy

Why did Teff have to die like that?

The boy's horrible death is burned into my core. The sounds and images stay with me, nagging at me, as I slog along the network of caverns, doggedly following the other tribute's scratched marks. This entire place is engineered to respond to the most minute whim of the Gamemakers. They could have finished him any time after he stepped into the trap, or at least when it was obvious he was not going to survive being impaled. Why was it necessary to let the whole tortuous thing play out?

Why is it necessary to let the whole tortuous Hunger Games play out?

My eyes are moist again. I am profoundly ashamed that I could not muster the nerve to end his suffering myself. I don't know why I couldn't. A moment before he fell, I was ready to attack him and cut his throat.

I'm so absorbed in my thoughts that I almost run straight into the end of a blocked tunnel. I'm confused for a moment, and dumbly extend my hand to make sure that the wall of boulders is real. There is a blaze a few feet in front of the wall, indicating that the maker had gone this way. The other wall shows no marks. So the tribute did not come to this dead end and turn around. He actually passed through while the tunnel was still open.

Did the cave-in block this passage? I doubt it. The trap that Teff fell into was still pristine, perfectly baited and set. I doubt that the plastic film would have remained in place with so much falling rock hitting it. It was also not covered with dust. I think it was made after the cave-in. So the walls are shifting? Suddenly it makes sense. The Gamemakers are herding the remaining tributes to some prearranged point for the "grand finale." Well, I'm ready. I'm ready for these Games to be over, one way or another.

I remember some of the assorted bits and pieces that I had found in my backpack earlier, while I was trapped at the bottom of the large pit. I unsling my bag and rummage through it, revealing my prize, a short pencil. At the bottom of the cave wall where the other tribute's trail marker should have been, I draw my own lines. If the walls really are being moved to direct me, it might be helpful to know where I've already been, so I can choose a new passageway if I cross my own path.

I mark every hundred feet or so. I never actually find any of my own prior marks, but I do run into more newly-blocked tunnels. It is while I am marking one of these that I feel a sudden alarm. Perhaps it's a subtle movement of the air, a faint smell, or a flicker of reflected light, but I bolt upright with my knife in my hand. Gaius spots me at the same instant and brandishes his club. The huge, ape-like boy is filthy, covered in that rank, drying cave mud. He has a long, partially healed cut across his forehead, and he's still limping from Fia's kick to his knee. We stand looking at each other for probably a full minute. Finally, he lowers his weapon a bit, peering at me warily. "I don't want to do this right now," he says heavily, his voice a worn rumble.

"I don't either," I say, privately sighing with relief. "I've had enough for one day, I think."

"Me too." Gaius glances past me, into the blind tunnel. "Let's stop here for a bit. I'm tired, and you probably are too." He chuckles at the incredulous expression that must have been on my face. "Don't worry. I wouldn't expect anyone here to let me watch over them while they sleep. I just want to sit for a while and rest."

"Truce," I agree, nodding.

We sit on our rolled sleeping bags, near the rock wall at the end of the tunnel. Gaius lowers himself stiffly, settling with his injured leg extended. Since we are so close to the end of the Games anyway, I offer Gaius some of the last of my food from the Cornucopia, a few crackers, and a mouthful of dessicated fruit bits and broken pieces of nuts. I keep the bag of food I took from the baited trap out of sight in my pack. Gaius doesn't know I have those, and I don't want to reveal everything that I'm carrying. He declines the crackers, but his eyes light up when he sees the nuts. "Those are my favorite," he says, picking several pieces from my hand. "We have nut trees back home."

"Oh? I didn't know they grew on trees."

"Some do." He gives a soft snort, like a repressed laugh. At my questioning look, he says, "I was always too big to climb the trees. Late in the season, when most of the nuts were gone, I would bribe little kids to climb up and knock some down for me."

"What would you give them?"

He looks a little sheepish. "Piggyback rides."

I start to laugh, I can't help it. I'm struck by a sudden mental image of Gaius carrying a squealing child…or children, he's so big…on his back and galloping around. "I have a little brother," I tell him, when I can finally speak. "He would do almost anything for a piggyback ride."

"I don't have any brothers or sisters. My Pah is a Peacekeeper, but he's been assigned to another district since I was little."

"What about your mother?"

"I don't remember my Mah. I came up with my Ante Flavie, at least until she had to take me to school," Gaius states matter-of-factly. He is obliquely referring to District 2's training system, that he doesn't dare mention out loud in case we are on camera. Which we probably are.

"I lived with my Mother, my Father, my two little sisters, and of course, my little brother. I haven't seen much of them in years, though."

Gauis grunts, nodding. "I didn't see Ante Flavie for a long time, until Reaping Day."

He looks so sorrowful that I do not want to ask him more about that meeting, or about Reaping Day.

Gaius tosses the nuts into his mouth all at once, as if they were just any regular old food and not his favorite. But he chews them with obvious pleasure. "These are good, thank you," he says, licking the dust from his dirty fingers. I notice, but the act doesn't bother me as much as it might have before the Games. "You seem to like the apricots," Gaius remarks, pointing out that I have eaten them all.

There weren't many of them to start with, but he's right, and I smile. "Probably because they are my faction color."

"Your faction?" he prompts.

"More like a social club. Families tend to pledge to the same color, but there are no hard and fast rules."

"And yours is yellow."

"That's right."

I want to talk to him, _really_ talk to him. I want to ask him if he saw any of the purposeful scratches on the walls, or ran into any traps. I want to ask if he knows who is still alive. More than anything, I want to ask this boy who might have been my friend in other circumstances what he thinks of everything that's happened, and to try to make sense of it with him. But I don't. His eyes look too haggard, too full of sights that no one should have to see, and deep shame for having done things that no one should have to do. When he said that he was tired, I understood exactly what he meant. We both need to seize a segment of normalcy, to pretend for a short time that we are only a boy and a girl sharing a snack, even though it's just scraps. Perhaps this respite is madness, but it cannot be more mad than a boy and a girl who will eventually be forced to kill each other, for reasons that have little to do with themselves.

"Dazzle? Um…is that your real name?"

I'm stupefied. Gaius looks embarrassed, and holds up both hands placatingly. "I'm sorry. I just always wanted to ask someone from District 1 about their names."

"It's true, that's my real name." I'm not really offended, but the question surprised me. "My sisters are Shine and Satin, and my brother is Lapis."

"Those are pretty names. Lapis is a blue stone, right?"

I nod, pleased that he knows about it. "The best lapis is deep blue, with gold veins. It's just a stone to most people, but it used to be symbolic of intelligence, and the ability to think clearly. So naming a baby "Lapis" means you hope he'll have them too."

"What about your name?"

"It comes from a word that means "to tire the sight." I guess giving that name to a girl means that you hope she's beautiful enough to make everyone go nearsighted?"

Gaius laughs out loud, holding one gigantic hand against his belly. "Or if she's ugly, everyone will be too blinded to notice!"

"Does your name mean anything?" I ask when my laughter subsides.

"I don't think so," Gaius says after a moment's thought. "Most of our names are like those from the Capitol, and we tend not to have last names. Well, not given, family names. I might earn a second name later, when I…"

_…grow up._

The unfinished sentence hangs in the air between us. At least one of us is not going to survive the Hunger Games, maybe neither of us will. My gaze drops to the floor. Our respite is broken.

I hear him swallow hard, then sigh. He takes up his sleeping roll and backpack and stands, looming like a stone pillar. His features have hardened back into those of the brutal, ape-like savage I saw back at the Training Center, but his voice is gentle when he speaks. "Thank you, Dazzle."

For a few moments, I had been able to stop thinking about my hunger, my exhaustion, Teff, and my dying family. I don't know what I could say that would possibly convey enough gratitude to him. "Thank you, Gaius. I hope I don't see you soon."

He nods curtly, and is gone.


	14. Someone Still Wants to Win

I'm wandering now, at least my mind is, even if my feet aren't. I stopped marking my trail a long time ago because the path I am being funneled into taking is so obvious, there doesn't seem to be any need for me to know where I've been. There have been no faces projected onto the ceiling since Teff's, two days ago. My clothes are starting to hang on me, where they haven't been torn into rags. I've been without food long enough that I don't even register the gnawing in my stomach as hunger any more. I have no plan, other than to keep shuffling along, letting myself by guided though the caverns to the inevitable finale.

I come to an enlarged pocket where three tunnels intersect. I am about to continue down one without altering my direction, when I notice a pale hand on the floor, sticking out from behind the rock where the tunnels meet. Although my mind is numb, my body automatically conceals itself, and I whip out my knife without thinking. I crouch for several minutes, my heart hammering. There is a thin, rasping moan, then everything is quiet again. Without straightening, I take a few short steps and tap the hand sharply, then jump back. Whoever it is moans again. If I had not been straining to listen, I might not have heard it. I really don't want to turn that corner and look, I really don't. But my life depends on knowing what is going on, so I slide forward, keeping myself pressed against the wall.

Callida is lying on the floor. I would not have guessed that she was alive without hearing her moans. Her skin is ashen and her staring eyes are sunk into their sockets. Flecks of foam coat her lips, and now that I am close enough, I can smell vomit on her clothes. However, I see no blood and no apparent wounds on her. I don't get close enough for her to reach me, in case it is a trick. "Callida?" I whisper.

Her blank eyes suddenly focus, and she sees me, or at least I think she does. She takes a shallow breath that rattles in her throat. Her lips twitch a little, and I wonder if she is trying to speak. I start to take a step closer to hear better, but stop when I see her hand moving. She is extending it toward the handle of her weapon chain, trying to reach for it. I don't think she has enough strength to even firmly grasp it, but I kick it out of her reach anyway. She gives a shallow sigh and closes her eyes. I shake my head. She is done for.

Her backpack is nearby. I pull it to me and unzip it. Callida must hear me moving, because she opens her eyes again and watches listlessly as I sort through the contents. Her pack holds much the same items as mine. I find a little bag with more dried fruit, mostly raisins and apple, I think. I slip it into my own pack.

Callida's face splits into a ghastly, toothy grin, and she starts to shake. After a puzzled moment, I realize that she is laughing. "What's funny?" I ask. She doesn't give me an answer, but I really didn't expect one. After a moment's thought, I pick up her weapon chain as well. I don't have a real weapon at all, other than my little bootknife, and I'll need more than that when I run into Gaius again.

I'm getting ready to leave, I want to leave, but I can't. I turn back to her. "Callida?" I begin, "You know you're dying. Do you want me to finish it for you before I go?"

She hesitates, and nods. I don't really have enough room to swing the weapon chain, so I draw my knife, and get down on one knee. When I lean down to tilt her head, she grabs a handful of the front of my shirt, and tries to pull me down. Her other hand arcs into my face, clawing at my eyes. I swat her away easily, and stand. She is shaking again, laughing without sound.

I don't bother to say anything. I just get to my feet and walk away in disgust. If the circumstances had been reversed, though, I could see myself trying the same thing. The difference is that Callida still wants to win. I just want to…I don't even know any more.

As I move, something is bothering me about the entire scene, and it is probably an hour or so later before I figure out what it is. I am completely out of food and have been for several days, but Callida still had some. That is strange enough to make me stop walking, and more carefully examine the bag. It had already been opened, so she had likely eaten some. I dump out a little bit into my hand. It smells all right. The raisins look fine. What I had originally mistaken for apple though, is some sort of spongy stuff, cut into irregularly-sized cubes. I pick a few out and look at them carefully. One of them has rows of fine, deep ridges along one side. They are softer than the rest of the cube, almost velvety. Fungus? I glance to one side and spot some of the luminescent fungus that grows along the walls in most of this cave. I don't know whether it is the same type, but I am certain that Callida had also mistaken this for dried fruit and ate it. Well, I'm not going to eat it, though if I hadn't seen Callida, I'm sure I would have. I carefully tip what I have in my hand back into the bag, roll up the top, and stow it carefully in my backpack. Maybe I can use the plastic for something later.

As I resettle my pack into its customary place on my shoulder, I hear the cannon shot. I'm sure I'll be seeing Callida's face on tonight's broadcast of the fallen. Maybe someone found her and had better luck at finishing her off than I did. Maybe she succumbed to the poison fungus. It doesn't really matter. There are three tributes left, Gaius, the unknown tribute, and myself. How likely is it that this anonymous tribute is the same one who has been marking his trail, setting traps, and poisoning food? If all three are being done by one person, and that person is still alive, the odds-makers at the Capitol are probably going berserk.

**Author's Note: There's only one, maybe two chapters left. I had to toss my idea for the last bit, and I'm having a little trouble working it out. But the finish line is in sight!**


	15. Prelude to Victory

I know that I am coming to the end of my journey by the steadily increasing light that suffuses the passageway. It stands to reason that the Gamemakers would want to illuminate every drop of sweat and blood, the better to broadcast them with perfect clarity.

Compared to the dim glow of the luminescent fungi that I've gotten used to, my destination is so brightly lit that I have to stand and blink while my eyes adjust. I can imagine the live commentary now…_Dazzle is dazzled! _It doesn't take long before I'm able to see, though it takes me a few minutes to make sense of the weirdness that stretches out before me.

This chamber is much larger than the one that held the Cornucopia. The tunnel ends at my feet and drops sharply into a chasm so deep that I cannot see the bottom. Gigantic pedestals of stone rise from the depths, like islands in a twilight ocean. Each of the massive mesas seems to be topped by a different terrain. The one closest to me, still several hundred feet away, is a meadow of green grass dotted with pink and white flowers. Another gleams with a coating of ice crystals. An even more distant one is ringed with fire, and the middle bubbles with lava.

Smaller stones orbit through the empty space between the rock towers, floating without any visible support. They appear to be traveling in flat planes, at varying heights relative to the tops of the mesas. Some are moving more or less clockwise, some counterclockwise. Some trundle along slowly, and some zip past. I see that riding them is the only possible way to move between the pinnacles. As I stand considering what to do next, there is a slight shudder and a grinding noise behind me. I turn quickly, in time to see a featureless stone wall slide into place and block my only exit.

So far, I have lived through the Games by hesitating to charge blindly into the unknown, but there's nothing left for me to do. I guess it's lucky that I'm not afraid of heights. I wait until one of the smaller rocks paths close, then I hold my breath and jump.

I land on a surface that is much softer than I had expected, and I grab reflexively, though I quickly realize I am in no danger of falling off. It's not a rock at all, but more like a padded airbag. I am gratified that it isn't covered with oil, or that spikes don't leap out to impale me. The floating pad conveys me close to the meadow, and I drop onto it. I halfway expect to bounce when I land, but the surface is solid and might as well be rock. That was easy enough. The grass is soft and green and feels real. Even the flowers smell pretty. I don't see any animals or insects…which is a good thing, since they'd likely be muttations anyway. Of course, nothing says that plants can't be muttations too. I eye the delicate flowers suspiciously.

Thinking about muttations leads to another worry. If Gaius and the unknown third tribute aren't here already, they will probably be herded this way before much longer. I close my hand around the grip of the weapon chain. Being armed again makes me feel a little more secure, though it won't help me avoid a trap.

I notice that one of the floating pads is shaped differently than the others, even though it is still quite far away. I immediately flatten myself onto my stomach. The only cover close to me is a patch of weeds that is somewhat taller than the green grass. I crawl into it, hoping it isn't concealing something worse than whatever is slowly flying in my direction. As it passes closer, I see that there is a body draped across the top. It's too small to be Gaius, and I realize that I am seeing the trap-setter, the poisoner, the trailblazer. I get a clear view, but I'm not sure who it is. It's a small person, skinny and frail-looking. Then with a shock, I recognize Lumen, the pretty girl from District 5, the one who was playing up to the cameras during the Opening Ceremonies. She's lost a lot of weight, probably proportionally more than I have. All of her long, dark hair has been shorn off close to her scalp, unevenly, as if it had been hacked off with a dull blade. Her clothes are practically in ribbons, though they don't have the random look of having been torn on rocks. I wonder if she cut them herself to use in her traps. There is no way she could have showed this resourcefulness to the Gamemakers and only earned a survival score of 4…she's been fooling everyone since the moment she was Reaped. I feel a grudging respect for the girl, and a strange sense of betrayal. _She cheated!_ I think indignantly, but as soon as it crosses my mind, I have to stifle a laugh. Those of us who were trained years in advance of the Games are cheaters too.

I am suddenly reminded of Kier Cauley and his score of 11. I am certain there was cheating there as well, except not on Kier's part. I wonder if he bothered to show them any skills at all, knowing that he was going to be marked for death no matter what he did.

As the airbag that bears Lumen ambles over my position, I see her open one eye just a little. She knows that I am crouching in the weeds like a predator. A bead of sweat glistens on her forehead, but she does not move a muscle. I wonder what in the world she is doing, but I am instantly wary. I've seen her traps, and almost eaten her fungus-laced bait. There is no amount of prize money in Panem that would induce me to jump onto that pad and attempt to take her out. She floats past me, still unmoving.

A flash of movement from farther away catches my attention. With a chill, I see Gaius leap from the lava pinnacle onto a passing bag. I press myself further into the grass, hoping that he has not seen me. I don't know what I'll do if he strays within range of my weapon chain. I don't really want to kill Gaius, but I don't see any other way out for myself. It's strange…I'm no longer living to win, but if I want to live, I have to win.


	16. The Grand Finale

Gaius leaps from pad to pad, making his way toward us, but he's not looking at me. At first I'm relieved that he doesn't see me, but it lasts only until I realize that his eyes are locked onto Lumen. Dread wells up inside me. I wonder if he has seen any of her traps. He is probably going toward what he thinks will be an easy kill, with Lumen weakened and nearly dead. I do not see anything that could be dangerous around the pad on which she is floating, but I know in my bones that the trap is there.

He lands heavily on the last pad before Lumen's, tensed for the final leap. But he does not jump right away. Instead he crouches for a few moments, watching, considering. His hand flexes around the grip of his club. Even if he has not seen any of the horrible traps or the poisoned food, it has got to seem strange that another tribute has practically gift-wrapped herself. Especially one whose pre-game score predicted that she wouldn't get past the Bloodbath. Gaius sighs. I want to scream, to warn him, but I can hear in his sigh that it wouldn't do any good. He is committed now, to life or death, either one, if not now then later. His muscles bunch and he springs, lifting the club to deliver a shattering blow.

Lumen's eyes pop open, seeing Gaius descending on her like a landslide. She shrieks a little and rolls to one side as his feet hit the pad. I see a gleam of metal. She holds a spearhead which has been broken from its shaft, but instead of using it in futile self-defense, Lumen plunges it into the airbag.

The entire top of the floating bag ruptures as the pressurized gas suddenly rushes out. Just as suddenly, the bag flips upside down. Gaius and Lumen both topple and fall. I rush to the edge of the meadow. Gaius is falling into the gorge and is swallowed by the darkness a moment later. I look up at the now deflated bag. Lumen is hanging from the underside, secured by a flimsy-looking cord of what seems to be material from her clothing interwoven with her own hair. She is trying to pull herself up onto the limp, still floating bag, without much success.

It is another ten seconds or so before the cannon shot booms through the cavern. My heart hears the anguished cries of the children from District 2, mourning the gigantic boy who traded them piggy-back rides for nuts.

At the sound of the cannon, Lumen stops struggling to climb, and looks at me. I had thought myself the predator in the weeds, but I see now that I have been marked as prey. Lumen smiles, a gesture that I am sure she intends the watching cameras to see as charming, but in person appears feral and unsettling.

Plush had told Chrome and me to never assume that tributes from poor districts were stupid or helpless just because they'd had no weapons training. Well, she has been more than proven right. Thinking of Plush reminds me of the train ride to the Capitol. She was so weary-looking, thin and drawn. I remember that she had always been drinking that nasty bittergreen tea. It occurs to me that I never saw her eat anything, not even once, during the entire time she was mentoring us.

Something falls into place in my brain. Plush wasn't eating…because she couldn't. She probably has no appetite left after her Victory, and sixteen years of mentoring tributes who often died in the Arena. Is that what the life of a Victor is like? I think of other Victors I've seen face to face or on television, right down to that bumbling drunkard from District 12. Not all of them carry burdens as obvious as his, but now that I think about it, none of them appeared to be wildly happy in their lives of riches and comfort.

The last daydream I had of bringing my family to a nice house in the Victors' Village fades and crumbles.

Lumen is still smiling, hanging from the punctured airbag as it drifts away from me. My desire to win is completely gone, but I'm surely not going to allow her to kill me. Unless I could do it convincingly, everyone would know that I let Lumen win. I'm not sure what effect that would have on my family, but I'm sure it would not be good. I want to somehow send them a message, without sending the same message to the Capitol. What can I do that my people will understand, but will seem meaningless to the rest of the audience?

Suddenly, I know what do to.

I drop to my knees and unsling my backpack. I take out the plastic bag of poisoned food that I had gotten from Callida as she lay dying. It doesn't take much acting skill to make myself look ravenously hungry, but I want to make sure the audience knows that I am. I spread one of the empty plastic bags that previously held dried fruit across the grass, and pour Lumen's fungus-laden raisins onto it.

I have to do this right. I close my eyes for a moment, and think of every beautiful thing I have ever been fortunate enough to eat. I arrange the dark raisins and light cubes into a pattern, as complex and attractive as I can. I can't take a whole lot of time, or someone's suspicions will be aroused that this is different from anything they've observed District 1 people doing before with their food. But I want to infuse this particular meal with meaning, for myself and for my District. After a minute or so, I am pleased with the results. Lumen watches intently as I begin to eat. The fungus has no taste, but it is very chewy. It is harder to eat than I thought it would be, knowing that swallowing it will mean my death, but I gather my discipline and eat it all.

Lumen starts to giggle, a high-pitched, wavering sound, with no humor in it. I think about Callida, and the way she looked before she died, and I wonder how much dying this way will hurt.

It is probably an hour before the stomach cramps begin.

**The End**

**Thank you very much to everyone who took the time to read, and to those who have kindly left reviews!**


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